


Play the Fool

by coyotl



Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, D/s undertones, M/M, PWP, Power Imbalance, Rough Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 05:55:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3163772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coyotl/pseuds/coyotl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>But it was Esca’s hand, gripped tight in his hair and Esca’s blade on his throat that woke Marcus from the numbed nightmare he’d been stumbling through. He could feel the man’s thigh pressed hard against his back, the slight tremor in the hand that held him stretched impossibly tight, the blade cold and kissing up against his throat, and suddenly Marcus felt blessedly clear-headed</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Play the Fool

**Author's Note:**

  * For [abbeyjewel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbeyjewel/gifts), [yeaka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/gifts).



> All of my historical knowledge comes from shit I picked up in coffeeshop conversations and random late night forays into the Discovery channel, just so you know.  
> And this is entirely the fault of Yeaka and Abbeyjewel. I disavow any and all responsibility for the travesty you are about to witness.  
> Except for the whole no-beta thing, because I have no patience for an editing process that consists of more than me nodding and saying "yup. works for me." So, I will take responsibility for poor grammar and typos.

He might have been foolish enough to call after Esca, foolish enough to struggle against the sudden change in tides between them, but he wasn’t so foolish that he didn’t know what was occurring. And he might have been foolish enough, from time to time, to implore Esca’s attention, even while he was dragged and tossed along the cold hard ground, but he wasn’t so foolish as to think he would be freed because of it.

That he had become the captive was clear enough. That he was now the slave in a land whose customs and language were not his own was obvious.  In fact, if it were not his hide in question, he might have even gone as far as to say that it seemed right, seemed _correct_ that he should be the one bound and pulled along and nearly starved.

These men were ruthless. He could read that clearly enough in the tight way his former slave carried himself in their company. It didn’t make it any easier for Marcus to hold his tongue, even as he knew himself a fool for demanding Esca give him answers. He should be meek, or at least _play_ meek, but clearly he lacked whatever necessary element a man might need to carry off such guile.

It wasn’t as though his prideful ways would somehow make them suspect in the eyes of the men who watched them, ever-so-keenly, with ever-so-keenly sharpened blades. After all, there was absolutely no hiding the fact that Marcus did not come from slave-stock, that he was a Roman, and a Roman soldier at that. But, and he knew this damned well even if he couldn’t act on his understanding, he would be much better off if he could simply bow his head. It tended to invite less blows. It was also far easier said than done. He had been taught to fight. He had never been taught to take it on bended knee.

He didn’t think Esca would fault him for this. It was not as though the man had much in the way of meekness himself, as even Marcus’ first glimpse of him had made clear. And he would never, in all his days forget the sight, the proud, viciously lean and painted man, refusing to fight, _refusing_ to bend his will, not even to save his own life, _daring_ his well-armed opponent to kill him. Seizing the only claim he could make, even if that claim was for his own death.

Even his indenture to Marcus was fraught with prideful indignation. No man born a slave could ever meld resentment into gratitude as artfully as this man had. That his care of Marcus had evolved from a galling sense of duty to some sort of grudging respect had not been lost on Marcus, either. But whether that sense of duty and respect were motivation enough to ensure his loyalty now that they’d returned to his homeland, now that Marcus had been stripped of any power he might have held over Esca... well. He’d be a fool not to wonder.

So he didn’t fault himself, not really, for being a half-rate excuse of a slave. He had his pride, after all, even if it was bruised and almost overwhelmed with a sense of isolation and helplessness stronger than any he had felt even at his most incapacitated moments while still bedridden and healing.

But the truth was that he was afraid. He had no one. If he did not have Esca, he had no one at all, and for a man well-accustomed to having an entire empire at his side, the thought was daunting. He had been a fool to think that wandering alone into enemy territory would net him anything other than betrayal, abandonment and death. He would have done well to remember the man who sauntered chest first into his own death, done well to realize that he was walking into the jaws of a land that grew such men.

And knowing this, _knowing_ all of this, he knew himself to be an _utter_ and _complete_ fool for letting his eyes wander at the sound of women laughing. It wasn’t as though he had any thoughts of wooing them. Even if he’d never been a slave himself, he was well aware of the lines a slave would never dream of crossing, and had no thoughts of pushing that boundary himself. But. He heard the laugh and he _looked_ , knowing he was surrounded by hard-fisted men who were looking for the smallest excuse to put him in his place, and that was an inexcusably stupid thing to do.

He didn’t fault the fists that landed on him. He wasn’t going to argue the point that he did nothing, that he intended nothing. He knew this had little to nothing to do with the defense of those women, and everything to do with spilling Roman blood, knew they’d been salivating for it since they’d laid eyes on him.

Marcus wondered if he’d die from this, and the thought almost made him laugh, that of all the deaths that might have claimed him it would be one stripped entirely of any honor. It made him wonder what Esca would have to say about it, had he been free to speak, if he would ask Marcus if it had been worth chasing down his father’s ghost to end like this.

But it was Esca’s hand, gripped tight in his hair and Esca’s blade on his throat that woke Marcus from the numbed nightmare he’d been stumbling through. He could feel the man’s thigh pressed hard against his back, the slight tremor in the hand that held him stretched impossibly tight, the blade cold and kissing up against his throat, and suddenly Marcus felt blessedly clear-headed.

 _This_ he knew. The hold the man had on him, the truth of steel balanced against his will to live, all of it felt like a call for Marcus to remember, to wake up and _remember_ who he was. What he was. The fight wasn’t over yet, he wasn’t dead _yet_ , and he would do well to remember it.

Whether it was a calculated risk, calling the warrior’s bluff to stave off his beating Marcus to death, or whether Esca was offering up Marcus’ life to save his own didn’t really seem to matter in that moment. In fact, the only thing that really seemed to matter to Marcus was the grip, sure and absolute, that Esca had on his head and the hot line of his body at Marcus’ back. As much as his life might have been hanging in the balance, Marcus had never felt so secure in his life.

His stomach dropped when Esca released him, as though the man’s touch had been some sort of lifeline. There might have been heat in the words he threw after the man’s back, but it was a cold stone in his gut that brought him truth. It was not a sense of betrayal that called up his fury, it was the fact that the man was _leaving him_ yet again. He would have rather Esca beat him to a pulp than watch him stride away with that stiff and angry gait.

The way his body nearly ached with emptiness where Esca had been pressed against him, that made things clear. He was starved of Esca’s touch. He’d grown accustomed to it while Esca had tended him through his convalescence, and lately grown accustomed to the feel of their bodies’ pressed back to back against each other to ward off the chill of the Northern nights they’d been enduring.

And if he was going to be a man enough to admit it, he hungered not just for these things, but even for the fierce weight of the man’s gaze upon him. Marcus _wanted_. Truth be told, had likely wanted since the first time he’d set eyes on Esca. But it was not his way to take his pleasure from bodies that had no recourse against him, so he’d brushed his hunger aside. He’d had more than enough distractions to cast the thought away completely in due time.

But now. Now the tables had turned. Now Marcus kneeled upon the cold hard ground stripped bare of all pretense, and he _hungered_. It made him mad enough to promise Esca that death he’d asked for so long ago, but even so it wasn’t something he could shake in the hours that followed. He was too tired, too weak, too damned _lonely_ to fight it any more. And maybe he was a fool for this as well, but he couldn’t help but reason, in the light of recent events, it could help allay suspicions if he were to follow through.

Because, if he were to be precise, if he were to be _honest_ with himself, he didn’t just want Esca’s attention, no, he wanted to feel himself pinned under the man’s iron will, wanted to feel that grip again, wanted to be _caught_ and _held_ in this man’s hands. It was a sentiment more fitting of a youth just cutting his teeth on the sharp edge of war than of a seasoned veteran, but there it was.

He was quite willing to play the fool for Esca, even if Esca had no interest in Marcus’ well-being beyond whatever prestige his owning a Roman soldier for a slave provided. And if Esca was still holding true to the promise he had made when he gave his knife to Marcus, then it would buy them time and perhaps buy Esca the leeway he needed to do... whatever it was he might have been planning.

It shocked Marcus just a little, how much he no longer cared about these particulars. It shocked him even more how far he was willing to go to gain Esca’s attention. But if he was going to be a fool, then let him be a bold and brazen fool. Let everyone watch him grovel at Esca’s feet. What good was pride when it left him a dried and empty limping husk chasing after his dead father’s shadow?

And, no mistake, he knew they would be watching. He could feel a cold hard gaze fall upon him even as he crept into the warriors’ hut Esca was sleeping in. Although it was quite late, clearly not everyone present was asleep. It did not give him pause. In fact, it spurred him on. It was dark, but the coals in the fire pit let off enough light that Marcus found Esca easily, somewhat removed from the other clusters of sleeping forms.

Ever the light sleeper, Esca was awake by the time Marcus knelt by him. “Come to make good on your promise? You might succeed, but you’ll never make it out of this tent alive.”

Marcus found his tongue had turned to lead. It was one thing to think and to do, it was quite another to say it out loud. He swallowed hard and forced sound past his throat. “Forgive me, Master, for the wrongs I have committed against your person.”

There was a hiss and that hand again, pulling him forward by the scruff as Esca leaned in. “Just what is it you’re playing at, Roman? Or have you simply lost your mind completely?”

Marcus shook his head, even as the grip on his neck threatened to turn him into jelly. “No. No games, just...”

At a loss for words, he dropped his face instead to nuzzle in Esca’s lap, deliberately drawing his mouth over the bulge he could feel under the blanket covering him. He wondered if Esca knew just what Marcus was doing with this act, how much he was debasing himself. Because although he knew that it was done, on foreign lands by foreign people, for a Roman to put his mouth upon another person was the ultimate perversion. He would be held in higher regard had he fucked a goat in the town center.

By the way he cursed under his breath, tightened his grip and pushed his hips up slightly, Marcus thought perhaps Esca did. And if the growing heat and hardness under his lips was anything to go by, he liked it as well. Marcus ran his face along Esca’s growing erection and let out a whispered _please_ that he thought had gone unheard until Esca dragged him back up again, leaning in close enough that their foreheads were touching.

“Please _what_ , Roman?”

And oh, the heat and hard edge to those words should not have moved him the way it did. Likely his ancestors were disavowing any knowledge of his existence at this point, but he did not care, he did not care one solid whit if it meant he could have Esca this close with this much heat and fervor.

“Please forgive me. Please remind me of my place.” He did not say _by your side_. He had no right to lay that claim, after all. Did not say it, but he did think it.

There was a moment of stunned silence in which Esca looked completely bewildered and out of his depth, until a rustle nearby brought him to his senses and the flash in his eyes hardened into a dark heat.

“Should I pass you around, then? Let them help you _remember_?”

Marcus shuddered at the thought, shaking his head in fear. It was one thing to writhe under Esca’s thumb for all to see, it was quite another to endure the touch of others. That sort of thing would likely break him completely, have him greet the dawn by walking into the cold sea with a stone tied to his chest. He didn’t have to dissimilate for there to be fear in his response.

He didn’t have to work to beg. “No, Master, just you. Please. Just you.”

If the quick flash in Esca’s eyes was anything to go by, that had been the right thing to say. He pulled aside the blankets and pushed Marcus roughly down. “You’ll have to earn it, then, if you wish to be _mine_.”

Marcus didn’t reply, let his actions show his gratitude as he pushed his face once more into Esca’s lap, breathing in the heat and musky smell of his arousal. It had Marcus’ mouth watering in a way no food ever did, had him freeing Esca’s cock with careful urgency. He paused, then, licking his lips at the sight of Esca’s cock, long and flushed a rosy pink, hard enough that head was crowning out of its foreskin. Marcus was hungry for it, yes, but in practice he had no idea what to do.

Esca read his actions right, as Esca always had, and took himself in hand, stroking a few times, watching Marcus track his movements before he fed himself past Marcus’ half-opened lips, holding Marcus firm by the back of the head with his other hand.

Esca’s voice had none to the tremble that Marcus could see in his thighs. It was honeyed heat and strength, and Marcus could feel it travel down his spine and coil in his gut. “You _lick_. You cover your teeth and you _suck_ , and when I hold you down, you _take it_.”

Marcus did as he was told, until the press of Esca’s cock against his lips, the weight of him on his tongue was all he knew, all he ever wanted to know. He couldn’t stop his whole body from writhing as he worked Esca with his mouth, couldn’t stop the hushed mewls that slipped out of his throat until Esca had him by the head and pushed up enough to choke him, enough to make him gag, and Marcus could only lift off long enough to take a breath before he pushed himself down to take it again.

Esca held him there, pinned down with his nose pressed up to his soft belly, long enough that he was starved for air, and did not let go until Marcus stilled completely, accepting Esca’s will even if that will would mean his death. It earned him a hot laugh, as Esca pulled him off completely, pulled him up so he was kneeling.

Esca kneeled himself and came in close, his face a mix of cruel amusement and unbanked heat as he gazed on Marcus’s tear-soaked face. Marcus was well past being able to hide anything he was feeling, and something about the keening hunger and overwhelmed intensity of it must have pleased Esca. His smile was something that could be used to cut, something that could make men bleed.

“These tears suit you, slave. Let’s see if we can give you a few more to wear.”

Before Marcus could muster a reply, Esca had twisted and pulled him down so he was flat on his back against the bedding. He made quick work of Marcus’ breeches and underclothes, and Marcus tried to hide his face at the small gasp he heard when Esca slid his hand down past Marcus’ balls and into the crease of his ass, but the position he was in gave him no quarter to hide in as Esca rubbed his fingers over the slicked skin and pulled Marcus’ arm down from his face.

“Got yourself ready for me, did you?”

He had, of course he had. Sure, he’d been far younger the last time he’d been in this position, but it hadn’t been so long ago that he’d forgotten the value of some preparation. He had not known if Esca would have wanted it, but had taken to himself with a bit of oil and his fingers in case he might, with a furtive hope that he might, but somehow knowing all of this did not make it any easier to face Esca as he asked, as he slipped an experimental finger in and out and in again, teasing and rubbing him, that cat-like smile on his lips all the while.

Because as much as Marcus may have wanted to be claimed by Esca, he had never thought he’d have to face the man while he did it. It was a simple thing, a small detail, but one that made all the difference. He thought he’d be face down and on his knees, his shame a thing that he could hide, the ground his only witness. Esca seemed to have guessed as much as well, grinning viciously as he pushed up Marcus’ thighs and worked his way into Marcus with small unyielding thrusts.

A finger or two were nothing in comparison, and the ache and burn as Esca drove in had Marcus closing his eyes and covering his face again. It earned him a harder shove, and Marcus bit down on a groan as he felt the man bury himself balls deep inside. Esca stopped then, pushing himself down over Marcus’ body, pulling his arm off of his face again and tugging him forward by the jaw.

“No. You do not hide. You look me in the eye, just like you always do, _as if you have the right_. You look me in the eye and tell me whose you are.”

Marcus’ chest hitched on a sudden sob, although he had no knowledge of what it came from and gasped out a ragged “Yours.”

Esca pulled out a bit and slammed back in, implacable, and the burn took on and edge of heat that had Marcus canting his hips into.

“Say it again,” he demanded through a clenched tooth-smile.

And Marcus’ gasped out _yours_ gained and edge of something wanton from the way Esca swiveled his hips. Again and again, Esca had Marcus gasping out the claim, forcing a desperate, begging need into Marcus’ voice even as he choked on gasps and tossed his head and whispered _please_ without a sense of what he was begging for, just _please_ and _yours_ , until Esca stilled and took Marcus’ cock in hand. He stroked Marcus into full hardness and made him look Esca straight in the eye until came, shuddering and sobbing, clenching hard on Esca’s cock, still buried deep inside.

The rest was silent, save for the sound of their bodies slapping together and the grunts Esca’s hard thrusts pushed out of Marcus. Esca drove into Marcus’ pliant body like a battering ram, took and took and took until he found his point, until the man came hard, pushing Marcus down on to his cock with hands on his hips and grinding out his last stuttering thrusts with a clench-toothed groan.

Esca had hardly caught his breath before he’d leaned down over Marcus once again, pulling his head to the side, placing his mouth over the juncture where his shoulder met his neck and bit down _hard_ , hard enough that Marcus almost shouted, hard enough that it broke the skin.

His next smile was drunken, reddened from the blood that stained them, close and hot in Marcus’ face. “That is so that you will _remember_ , Roman, just how much of you is _mine_.”

Marcus took his leave on shaky legs, and did not thank the man for his attentions. After all, it was not his place to feel gratitude. He was, in fact, not entirely certain what he felt, beyond the spinning in his mind and a heavy grounding silence in his core. He slept, though, on the cold ground in the dark and soggy corner he’d carved out amongst the other slaves, he slept. With that burning ache of a bite marking his neck, pressing down like a hand gripping him hard, he slept.

It was more than he had done since the day those ropes had been bound around his wrists, and if that made him a fool, well.  At least he knew  _whose_ fool he was.


End file.
